THE FEAR PRINCIPLE

by B. A. Chepaitis

  "We have to leave," she said.

  The man with the cleaver walked toward them slowly, eyes filled with dog blood, with his own blood, with the blood of a longing for murder.

  A woman in white—nurse? nun? just a woman in white?—called out to him.

  Hey. Hey—what're you—

  "No," Jaguar yelled, hand out in gesture of protest as if she could stop this as if she could do anything about it as if her rage her fear her hope her anything mattered here. "Stop—he'll—"

  The cleaver went up and came down in an arc that caught the sun at the edge of it, splitting light and flesh and bone and the woman, head shattered, stood for a moment, held up by gravity, a meaningless grin on her face. She looked at Jaguar before she fell.

  Before she fell, over and over as she fell in Jaguar's dreams sometimes. As she fell, again and again.

  "That's the way it was, right?" Clare said, observing the scene with equanimity.

  That's the way it was. You started by killing to save a life, and ended by becoming the killer you'd saved someone from. Someone finding the bodies would kill four more. There was a wild contagion about it, and people tried to outdo each other in terms of what horrific act they could employ next. So many cops were killed after a while that they wouldn't work the beats anymore, wouldn't respond to calls. The National Guard was called out, but they just made more bodies in the streets, mostly the wrong ones. The killers and the vigilantes, now one and the same, knew how to slip through the dark sides of the buildings and get away.

  "That's the way it was," Jaguar repeated.

  A crack to her right. Jesus. Again. What—down. Get down. Stay down.

  You gotta get inside, kid. Can't you call someone to get you? Cover your goddamn head, will you?

  A man's voice. An older man. Fat and with a scruffy growth of gray stubble on his face. He saw her walking home from school on the last day she went to school. She blinked up at him, and heard the sound of gunfire. His eyes grew wide, arms flung out, torso convulsing, and his chest exploded. Blood spattered her face and the front of her shirt as she backed away slowly, then turned and ran.

  "Clare," Jaguar gasped. "Why are we here?"

  "We're here because you're here. Some part of you is still here."

  "But I don't understand. We should be where you were during the Serials."

  "I?" Clare said, surprised. "I was ... home. Studying art."

  A brief image of Clare, younger and even more beautiful, animated, with pastels smeared all over her hand, standing in front of a wide sheet of paper where flowers blossomed into skyscrapers and water fell from a hand, pouring over steel encased in vines.

  It wavered and disappeared, leaving them crouched against the side of the building, gunfire cracking on the streets.

  What had happened? She'd established normal empathic contact, expecting any number of scenes. Expecting nothing. Expecting anything but this, her own life reflected in a killer's mind.

  "Wait," she said. "Wait—why is this?"

  "Because," Clare said. "That's my gift."

  Clare. Pure light. Her eyes, suddenly silver and only refracting, giving back what they saw. Who she was. Her gift. The gift of reflection.

  "I don't let anyone do this," Jaguar said. "I don't let anyone see this."

  "But you let yourself see it," Clare noted. "And that's all that matters here."

  Jaguar raised herself up and saw that she was staring into the doorway of the apartment building she'd lived in as a child.

  "No," Jaguar said. "Not this. I won't—"

  "Do you know what day it is?" Clare asked.

  No.

  Not here. Not this. She would not allow it. She turned and rocked on her heels in front of Clare, raised her hands, and pressed them hard against her head.

  Focus. Focus. Pour yourself out. Empty yourself and find her.

  She felt a twisting, as if she was being turned inside out. Her vision distorted, faces breaking into component parts and limbs and torsos bent impossibly around angles and corners of a familiar house. Familiar home.

  A home. The home she lived in with her grandparents in Manhattan. Cool, clean apartment, four stories up.

  Parts reassembled, and she was in the apartment. Her mouth open to ask Clare where, when they were now, but no words emerged. The windows were open, and curtains blew in and out in silence. Clare left her side, strolling toward the round mirror that hung over the back of the couch.

  In the mirror, Clare mouthed words at her, gesturing.

  Silence. No sound here. Just vision.

  Jaguar followed where her arm pointed as men walked in.

  They're dead.

  No sound. No words. Just her mouth moving.

  All dead men. Men she knew. Men she'd seen killed in the streets. A young boy she'd stayed with during part of her year on the streets. Aaron. A boy. Just a boy. Then, dead men from the streets, prisoners who had died, more little boys, more men. All dead men.

  Clare, mouthing words.

  No sound.

  Jaguar watching the dead, the silent dead, the dead who would not die, who walked into the living room, into her home, into her. Into her.

  No sound.

  They didn't speak. Dead eyes, staring into her as if they lived there, silent and walking, circling her like buzzards, but they were the dead ones and she was alive. She was alive.

  She turned to Clare, tried to tell her.

  I'm alive. I don't belong here. I'm alive.

  Clare outside, staring at the mirror, at her own face, her lips moving in reflection.

  What? What are you saying? I can't see.

  Clare, turning her around, turning her toward the center of the room, pointing.

  There. Her grandfather, body riddled with decaying bullet holes.

  There, in back of him, Alex, gaping wound at the side of his head.

  Alex?

  No. No. No.

  She shouted, but only silence emerged, reverberating and final.

  The dead men spiraled in toward her, circling tighter and tighter, hands stretched out in gestures of pleading or violence.

  Clare laughed into the mirror. Jaguar took off her shoe and flung it at the mirror, saw it shatter in a space emptied of sound. The mirror shattering and dead men falling all around, like glass flying out, here and there, catching the sun at their edges.

  The mirror shattering, and Clare, laughing silently, spinning away from the flying bits of glass and spinning toward her like an endless centrifugal center, spinning madly in silence, and Jaguar, arms out, waiting for her, to catch her or be caught by the silent motion of her dance.

  "Cool beans, baby," Nick said as he stretched himself languorously on his couch, arms resting behind his head.

  This was so much easier than any other kind of empathic contact he'd made, it was ridiculous. All he'd had to do was find her signals, and he was there with her, and she was there with Clare. He'd been able to see the whole thing, and even add a few touches of his own at the end.

  There was none of the effort to find and occupy the space, none of the frightening feel of pouring yourself out into an endless hole. He just had to turn his thoughts, and he was part of the action.

  Alex being there. That was good. A nice touch, and one that he'd have to try again. Maybe it'd show her that even the exalted Alex was expendable. Though why she exalted him was something Nick never understood. It wasn't like he'd ever done anything for her except stay out of her way. Wasn't like he knew what it meant to survive what Jaguar had survived. What Nick had survived.

  That was where Jaguar had it all wrong. She didn't understand that she belonged with Nick, or with someone like him at least. Another survivor. They were both survivors, and they understood what it took to stay alive in a world that hated you, would eat you if it could. She knew that, but she kept trying to walk away from knowing it. The only reason she tried to walk away from him was so she could forget the shit the world was made of.

  And she'd been li
ke that from the first day he found her, scratching at his face and eyes when he was just trying to save her, point out the danger. She'd be dead if he hadn't done that, and she'd be dead if he didn't teach her how to take care of herself for the rest of the time she stayed in the old schoolhouse the rescue crew had converted into a temporary shelter.

  She was no more than thirteen then, thin as a split end, her eyes looking bigger in her face because of her thinness. She only spoke to answer questions.

  "How long you been wandering, kid?"

  A quick glance up at the sky. Counting suns. Counting moons. "About a year."

  "Your people dead?"

  "Yes."

  "How'd they die?"

  "They were killed."

  Nothing more. That was all. But in her eyes was something sharp and bright. Something that burned hot as dry ice.

  She kept herself to herself, and he saw how attentive she was to her surroundings, how closely she observed the people around her. She had a sharp instinct for self-preservation, or else she wouldn't have survived this long.

  Then, for no reason, she'd get stupid. One day he was handing out the food for the day—not much, because getting anyone to transport food this far inside the city lines was difficult—and he saw her look up from her plate of bread and processed-cheese food, over to the corner where an old man sat rocking and singing to himself.

  Some people saw too much, and just went away, Nick knew. Best to let them be. Eventually, they died, and it was one less mouth to feed.

  Jaguar stared at the old man, and Nick watched her, saw how little her eyes gave away. Then she stood up, walked over to the man, put her plate down, and started picking off pieces of cheese, putting them into his mouth.

  "Hey—what the hell're you doing?"

  Wide eyes. Saying nothing. Seeing everything. "I'm feeding him." As if that was normal.

  "Listen, I can't give you more food until tomorrow."

  No words. Her eyes, saying so what?

  He tried something else, leaning down to her, whispering into her ear. "He's dying. He's not gonna make it. Can't you see that?"

  Her eyes, saying so what?

  Then, he got angry, grabbed her plate, grabbed her, and dragged her away from him. He plunked her down on her cot and held her by the shoulders, held her eyes with his own, and saw ... something.

  Something bright and burning in a sea of green. Like fire inside green ice. Like the sun, stuck inside an iceberg. Like nothing he'd ever seen before.

  He let go of her shoulders, then stood up and shook his head at her. "Christ, kid. You're not strong enough to be giving your food away. Look at you—another wind'd take you away. Besides, it gives the others ideas. They'll start taking from you. I mean, who the hell do you think you are—Mother Teresa?"

  "Who's that?" she asked.

  Then he laughed. She was too young to remember that name. It meant nothing to her. He walked away, laughing and shaking his head. About an hour later he saw that she was back with the old man, feeding him bits of cheese, her green-ice eyes burning into him.

  She didn't get it then, and she didn't get it now. But maybe he had one more lesson to teach her, after all.

  He yawned, and stretched his arms out, feeling his stomach turn over as he did so.

  The only problem he'd found so far was that the implant made him queasy. Either that or his dinner packet had spoiled in the microfreeze. He never did understand how to work those things, and when chicken went bad, it went really bad.

  Even if it wasn't the chicken, queasiness was a small price to pay for what he could do now. He could find her anywhere. Anytime. And she couldn't escape. That'd be the lesson he'd teach her, and she deserved it, too. Refusing to back him up. After everything he did for her, everything he taught her. She owed him her life, and he was cashing in his chips.

  She thought she could get away from anything, and with anything. She'd see this time. There wasn't any escape. Never had been. Never would be.

  "I got plans for us, Jag." He chuckled. "You and me, meeting in ways you simply cannot imagine, or avoid."

  Life, Nick decided, was good.

  "Shit," Adrian said with heartfelt sincerity as he slammed the door shut behind him, tripping over the edge of the rug and stumbling into the living room. He caught himself, pressed hard against the wall, and looked up to see Jaguar staring at him from the middle of the room, arms crossed on her chest.

  She'd heard him come in, and had gathered herself together as much as she could before meeting him. Having gathered herself, she only hoped she would hold. When she left Clare, she felt rough at all her edges, and it wasn't getting better fast. Two at once. Too many, and this last one maybe too many all by itself.

  "Hard day at the con game, dear?" she asked, flashing a mocking smile at him.

  "S'all crap," he said, coming toward her, still stumbling.

  Drunk, Jaguar thought. He'd taken whatever money he had left after trying to buy off the doctors she'd sent him to, and tied one on. Like father, like son. At least she was making progress with this one.

  She waited until he was almost on top of her, then side-stepped, sending him off balance toward the round table in the alcove, where he caught himself and propped himself upright.

  "Goddammit," he said, "stand still."

  "I am standing still," she insisted as he lunged for her again. This time she leaned back, then caught him as he overbalanced toward her.

  He let his weight fall heavily against her, his face pressed into her shoulder, his hands running up and down her back. "Nice," he crooned, now amorous.

  "Where'd you learn to drink?" she said into his available ear. "From your father?"

  He pulled himself up and brought his face close to hers. She thought he would do this, and she caught his eyes with hers, pressing into the place where he remembered who he was, how he saw himself, how he hated that self he saw.

  But this time, he raised his hand and pushed her face away.

  "Stop that shit," he spit out. "Get the fuck out of my mind."

  Jaguar released him and took two steps back, expecting him to fall. But he didn't. He straightened himself, rage creating a semblance of sobriety.

  "I went to everyone on that list," he said, walking toward her, backing her toward the wall, "and they were all dead, or didn't exist, or didn't know what I was talking about. One woman tried to turn a trick with me, dammit. Then you—pushing into me, fucking with my mind."

  "What do you mean by that, Adrian?" she asked, calm now. Something was wrong here. He had no empathic ability, and shouldn't be able to name the feeling of contact at this point. She knew his history, and it was strictly middle of the road. Strictly from people who thought the empathic arts were the realm of freaks and circus performers. How could he name what she was doing? When did he learn to do that?

  "I mean," he said, "you're trying to get in me. I can feel you, with your fingers and your eyes. I can feel it, like some goddamn electric circuit zapping me. You're—you've got some kind of drug you're giving me, or one of those probes the testers use."

  He waved a hand in her face, pressing close to her. "You're not a crazy cop," he said. "You're just crazy. You do this for fun."

  She relaxed, now. He thought she was using technology to get to him, torture him. That was good. Raise his tension level. Bring out all the fears at once. She stopped to see if she was up to it, then realized it didn't matter if she was or not. Frayed and rough and she had better be ready, because here it was.

  She laughed at him, and pushed him back, away from her. "Gee, Adrian," she said. "Maybe I'm not a crazy cop. Maybe I'm one of those—you know—empaths. Shh. Don't tell. Does that scare you? They say that empaths, when they blow, blow big. Messing inside all those sick minds. Some people think empaths caused the Serials, you know. Maybe your father was dipping his stick in one, and that's why he killed your mother. What do you think, Adrian? Did you ever see that when you were a little boy? Hmm?"

  "Jesus, you
're sick," he said, disgusted.

  "Not as sick as you," she reminded him, and pulled him close. "Because you still want me, don't you? Even now, when you think I'm using probes on your brain. You can't stay away from me."

  She pressed herself against his groin, feeling the rising heat there, in spite of whatever alcohol he'd consumed.

  Then Clare's face made an appearance in her consciousness, laughing without sound.

  That silence, and the smell of dead men all through her, invading her again.

  They're all prisoners. Every last one of them.

  Goddammit, what if they are? What of it? What should I do—go back to Nick?

  She pressed closer to Adrian, anger rising in her like a wave to meet and crash against his own impotent rage.

  "You eat my sickness like the people you con eat the death you feed them," she said, her own voice seething. "Or like they would, if you could find any. If you could do anything right. You're just like your father, aren't you, little boy?"

  Adrian backed away from her, his face a study in revulsion. He wasn't angry anymore. Just repulsed.

  "Jesus," he said, "who knocked you around too much? You poke at me about the Serials, but what the hell are you sitting on?"

  She reached to him and grabbed his face hard, shook it.

  How dare he. Con man selling snake oil to dying people. How dare he? She felt as if any coolness of character she possessed had been pulled into the vortex of Clare's ice ego, and all that remained was her fire, burning over the boiling point for reasons she couldn't discern.

  "What the fuck do you want, anyway?" Adrian growled at her.

  What did she want?

  They're all prisoners. All of them.

  "Nothing," she said, "I want nothing from you, or anybody."

  And in anger, she pulled him close and kissed him hard.

  The Looker sat at the desk in his hotel room, considering the solitaire layout in front of him.

  "Much too much in the way of red," he muttered. There was nothing he could move here. Nothing he could shift. Nothing he could do.

  He leaned back and riffled the cards in his hand with his thumb.